Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 795: Crown

Lucavion didn’t even flinch.

No gasp. No twitch. No flicker of pain across his expression.

He met Lucien’s burning eyes with calm, unblinking black.

Not defiance.

Not arrogance.

Just—

Stillness.

As if he had expected it.

As if this grip meant nothing.

Lucien’s fury spiraled.

He pushed harder.

Just enough that the bones in most men’s wrists would scream.

Still—

Lucavion’s hand remained steady. His smile remained faint.

And his gaze?

It never left Lucien’s.

Never blinked.

Never bowed.

Lucavion’s hand remained still—unyielding, calm, unnaturally unwavering beneath Lucien’s crushing grip.

And then—

He smiled.

Subtle. Quiet. Like the tilt of a dagger under velvet.

His lips barely moved. A whisper shaped not for ears, but for comprehension alone.

“You should have listened to Seran.”

The words landed like poison-tipped arrows behind Lucien’s eyes.

’What…?’

His breath caught.

It couldn’t be.

’No. That name…’

The name Seran—a ghost from hidden corridors. A mistake buried. A pawn erased. A traitor consumed by shadows and silence.

Except—

In Lucien’s palm, something soft brushed his skin.

A folded square of cloth.

No weight to it. No sound.

Just presence.

He looked down.

Slowly.

A simple handkerchief. Pale. Unmarked—at first glance.

But as the light caught it, the fabric shifted—and there it was.

Faint. Barely stitched.

A sigil.

A [Crown].

*****

It was only a sentence.

A single, measured phrase from Lucien—spoken with all the poise of royalty and the cruelty of someone who had mastered the art of dismissal.

But it shattered her.

The moment the words left his lips, the hall turned. Not in noise—but in gaze. Like a thousand threads of attention suddenly wrapped around her neck.

She felt it.

The weight of their eyes. The nobles. The students. The professors who smiled too much and listened too little. They weren’t just looking.

They were judging.

Mocking.

She could feel it behind the stillness in their lips—the curling disdain, the muttered whispers behind fans and goblets.

’She really thought she mattered.’

’Imagine siding with him…’

’Foolish girl. Desperate for relevance.’

And for one terrible, breathless moment—Priscilla believed them.

Her throat tightened. Her fingers curled around the silk at her sides. She wanted to vanish. She wanted to undo the last five minutes, the last decision, the last time Lucavion had looked at her like she was more than what they said she was.

She had believed him.

Believed there was another way.

And now… she was being dragged down with him.

Lucien’s voice echoed again—measured, dismissive, gilded with the crown’s weight. There was no heat in it. No fury.

Only scorn.

The kind she had known all her life.

Her brother had turned the room against her with a few simple words. And for a heartbeat—she hated Lucavion for it.

’Why did you make me choose?’

Her breath caught in her chest, shallow and fractured.

Until—

The sound.

Not loud.

Just distinct.

A flicker. A whisper. A shift in the air.

And then—

Lucavion’s voice. But not from his lips.

From the air itself.

Projected.

Recorded.

Undeniable.

“…Baron lineage… boot on the bench… threats…”

Her heart stopped.

The recording.

Her eyes widened—not with fear. Not now.

With realization.

The scene from the terrace poured into the hall like a blade drawn from velvet. Every voice. Every word. Lyon. Davien. Reynard. Clear. Unmistakable.

And Lucien—

Lucien’s composure broke.

Not fully. Not visibly. Not yet.

But she saw it.

The flicker behind his eyes. The way his fingers stilled just slightly on his goblet. The way the muscles around his jaw twitched like someone trying not to scream.

She knew that expression.

She had worn it.

For years.

The fury you weren’t allowed to show. The shame you weren’t allowed to name.

And now, it was on his face.

Lucien—the one who had made her life a silent battlefield—was standing in her shoes.

The power he wielded so effortlessly had been stripped, if only for a moment. And it wasn’t because she begged for it.

It was because Lucavion forced the world to see.

To listen.

And in that moment—something inside her shifted.

The regret, the doubt, the ache of humiliation—it didn’t vanish.

But it turned.

Into something steady.

Something sharp.

Vindication wasn’t loud. It wasn’t noble. It didn’t sweep the room like a triumphant tide.

It was quiet.

It was in the way Lucien didn’t look at her.

It was in the way the crowd, for once, didn’t look through her.

She stood taller.

Not because they respected her now.

But because, for once, they saw.

Lucavion didn’t stop.

Each word was a scalpel. Precise. Cold. Irrefutable.

He wasn’t shouting.

He didn’t need to.

He spoke like someone who had waited for this moment—not to explode, but to dismantle. Not to prove himself, but to show everyone else how far they had already fallen.

And Lucien—

Lucien was unraveling.

Not in voice. Not in posture.

But in the fury simmering behind his perfectly carved expression.

Priscilla saw it.

The tremble in his jaw.

The twitch in his knuckles.

The flicker of something primal in his gaze—rage barely bound in flesh and silk.

The nobles sensed it too. Their masks didn’t slip, but their eyes did. Wide. Unsettled. Like prey realizing the predator has bled.

And Lucavion… was still smiling.

Not with glee.

With purpose.

Relentless.

Ruthless.

As if the Empire’s golden son wasn’t a prince—but a stone in his path to kick aside.

’He’s not stopping,’ Priscilla thought. ’He’s not going to stop.’

And in that moment—she understood the fear.

Not Lucien’s.

Theirs.

The nobles.

Because Lucavion wasn’t behaving like a challenger.

He was behaving like someone who didn’t care about the rules at all.

Even now, as truth vindicated him—he wasn’t trying to reclaim dignity.

He was burning the stage.

And they didn’t trust that.

Not from a commoner.

Not from a boy with power and nothing to lose.

Because that made him dangerous.

And suddenly—

He wasn’t just the boy who saved two children from noble cruelty.

He was the storm they hadn’t prepared for.

The kind that didn’t knock politely at the gates.

Priscilla’s chest tightened.

’They won’t side with him. Even if he’s right.’

And worse—

’Lucien’s about to lose control.’

Her heart pounded louder. She saw the twitch in his fingers now, the faintest shimmer of mana cracking along his skin, like light bleeding from a cracked mask.

Lucien didn’t like to be embarrassed.

Lucien never tolerated being cornered.

And Lucavion had him against the wall—and was still stepping forward.

This wasn’t triumph anymore.

It was provocation.

Calculated, deliberate provocation.

Rowen moved.

Not with haste—but with inevitability.

The kind of step that didn’t ask permission. That didn’t need introduction. The nobles parted instinctively, the way air makes way for a blade.

Priscilla saw him before he reached the center.

The gleam of armor dulled by years, not polish. The steady eyes—gray like the weight of truth. The walk of someone trained not to posture, but to finish.

’Rowen…’

He wasn’t just a protector. He was Lucien’s protector. The boy who used to trail behind her brother with a practice sword too big for his hands and a heart too loyal for his own good.

And now—he was moving toward Lucavion.

’No. No, no, this can’t happen—’

Not here. Not now. Not when everything was shifting. Not when the Empire had finally, finally seen Lucien falter.

Because this wouldn’t be a defense.

This would be erasure.

Lucavion would be removed. Not argued with. Not corrected.

Erased.

“Stop this this instant!”

She didn’t remember crossing the space between.

Didn’t remember stepping into the breath between Rowen’s judgment and Lucavion’s retort.

But her voice rang—clear, crisp, and immediate.

It silenced the room again.

Lucien turned.

Rowen paused.

And Lucavion… tilted his head.

“What?” he said lightly, curious.

But she knew that look.

He had been ready to go further. To end it.

“This is enough, Lucavion,” she said, tone even. Measured. No cracks.

But inside?

’They’re going to kill you.’

Not with blades. Not with spells.

With protocol. With hierarchy. With everything they had built to protect boys like Lucien—and destroy boys like Lucavion.

And Lucavion?

He smiled.

Not at her. Not for her.

But because he understood.

“Ah…”

He stepped back—not in surrender, but in grace.

“It appears the show’s gotten a bit dull, hasn’t it?” he murmured.

’No, Lucavion. It never was a show. You were never just entertainment. You were the lesson they didn’t want to learn.’

And then—he turned the blade back toward Lucien. Softly. Casually. Viciously.

“I suppose,” Lucavion said, “even dear Lucien makes mistakes. One can’t always judge character so easily.”

She watched Lucien stiffen.

Watched the words seep like slow poison beneath the skin of Empire’s heir.

She almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

“Seems even the Crown Prince misjudged the character of his followers,” Lucavion added.

’That’s the cut he’s choosing. Not the crown. The followers.’

She understood the tactic. He was giving Lucien a way out. A door. Sacrifice Reynard, preserve the mask.

“And yet…” Lucavion’s voice softened as his eyes found hers again. “Despite it all, Her Highness still shows such grace. Such restraint.”

A nod.

“To speak so plainly… and still forgive so much. Even what was done to her.”

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t blink.

But inside—

’You saw me.’

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